After earning a Master’s degree in English at Abilene
Christian University—something accomplished almost in spite of myself—I count
the months following graduation as some of the most illuminating and crucial to
my concept of adulthood. Following the completion of my program, I was able to
teach an additional semester as an adjunct, but the pay did not justify a
prolonged tenure. Some of the faculty in the ACU English Department expressed a
desire, but inability, to hire me on in a full-time capacity. My response to
this news was illustrative of my mid-20’s self: I refused to plan ahead or
formulate alternatives for post-grad life, opting instead to expect things to
work out—they always had in the past—as if I could will the world to give me my
due. It was the same attitude and approach I had carried before completing my
bachelor’s degree. Rather than forging a plan and taking the necessary steps to
that plan’s fruition, I was the world’s pin ball—bouncing here and there,
without agency or cognition.
As graduation day approached, I learned of (more likely, my
mother informed me of) an accelerated teaching certification program in the
Dallas/Fort Worth area. Not only could I earn certification over the course of
a summer, but average starting salaries for the school district ranged from
$45-50k. In the eyes of an adjunct professor, this seemed an incomprehensible
and vast fortune. Even more importantly, I had no idea what else to do. I made the move to Fort Worth and enrolled
in the program.
As a former professor used to say, “That went over like pork
at the Passover.” Amid increasing rumors of a hiring freeze in the DFW school
district, my apartment was broken into—twice. Though the first ill-fated heist
only left me temporarily $21.60 poorer (I recovered all of it after the bandits
were apprehended), my analysis of the events at the time was predictably
self-defeating: I can’t make it on my own. I did not know how to write a resume
and had failed to procure a single interview during that summer in Fort Worth.
It felt like surrendering, but I promptly withdrew from the certification
program (forfeiting whatever fee I paid), prematurely broke my lease with the
apartment complex, tuck tailed and moved home to Lawrence. I left behind a
metroplex of 6.5 million in favor of a community of 87,000 with a notoriously
slim job market.
Somehow, this decision paid dividends almost immediately. A
local bank interviewed me and told me, “Thanks, but no thanks,” but another possibility
soon emerged. When Associates in Dentistry called one autumn day, my
desperation dictated that I entertain even the most unlikely of opportunities.
“We see that you applied for a front-desk position, but we
are currently interviewing for a dental assistant job. Are you interested?”
I knew nothing about
teeth apart from my own unfortunate experience with braces during my
adolescence. On the one hand, the thought that my Master’s degree and student
loan debt could apparently yield nothing greater than holding Mr. Thirsty
struck me as an injustice akin to Carey Mulligan continually cast as an
attractive person. On the other hand, I was an adult man living in his parents’
basement, eating nachos in the middle of the night while scanning Match.com and
watching reruns of “High Stakes Poker.” It was thus that my sense of
entitlement was laid to waste like a meth-addled molar. The first interview beget a second one, after
which the company graciously hired me because they—unlike many other would-be
employers—were impressed enough with my education that they overlooked my lack
of skills. They assumed that I would learn on the fly because I was “smart.” Accepting
the position, though terrifying at the time, marked the beginning of an
adulthood and character turning point with far-reaching implications.
As an adjunct professor, I had grown accustomed to doing
work when I felt like it. In the semester that I taught following my graduation,
I no longer had classes or comprehensive exams to worry about. So, apart from the actual sessions I taught
and the few required office hours, I did what I wanted when I wanted,
essentially answering to no one. When I put on that white dental jacket and
climbed into the chair across from Dr. Kincaid, though, the relative
nonchalance of my academic life seemed a distant memory. Suddenly, many things
depended on me and demanded my unwavering focus. The dentist performs the
important work, certainly, but the assistants serve as the oil that makes the
machine operate smoothly and efficiently. They speak to the patients about
their symptoms, take x-rays, document every procedure (noting every solution
and bonding agent used), hand the doctor whatever he needs when he needs it,
and—of course—hold the suction device in the patient’s mouth to ensure he/she
doesn't choke on blood, spit, or tooth fragments. When not assisting with a
procedure, I was constantly moving: acquiring items needed for the next
appointment, sterilizing the room/instruments, or retrieving another patient
from the waiting room. Of course, I had no idea how to do any of this at the
beginning: It was a baptism by fire.
Then there were the visuals. When you assist fillings, root
canals, crown preps, and extractions all day, you will see things that cannot
be unseen. Things worse than the Bridesmaids
food poisoning scene, if you can imagine it. Learning dentistry presented a
daunting enough task, but the gradual desensitization to tooth decimation was
something else altogether. A memorable procedure involved the extraction of
every single drug-rotted tooth in this patient’s mouth. Inches away from the carnage,
I sat dutifully by with my suction device and watched the dentist plunge,
contort, and finesse his elevator and forceps into the patients’ gums. Some
teeth gave way like the French; others did not. He calmly placed each newly
homeless tooth on a nearby tray. These experiences prepared me to one day watch
“The Walking Dead” without losing my biscuits.
Initially, the stark contrast between my former career path
and dentistry was almost too much for me. Where I had once attempted to mold
minds, now I watched someone else mold mouths. I reflected with dismay that I
now held a plastic cup into which people spit, when months earlier I stood
before a classroom and discussed the philosophical undertones of The Dark Knight. The assistant who initially trained me was
younger than my college students. Fridays included a 7:00 a.m. appointment,
which meant that I needed to arrive by 6:40 to make preparations. Something
important happened during the course of my assimilation, though. I developed a
work ethic. My every motion became purposeful and efficient. I knew what the
dentist needed before he spoke it aloud. I learned how to make and mold
temporaries (fake, aluminum teeth) on my own. In short, I became quite good at
the job and took great pride in the fact—particularly since I was not sure I
could do it at all when I started. The sink or swim environment, while uncomfortable
at first, served as the perfect antidote for my sense of entitlement and
immaturity.
When I was hired, the job was above me—not beneath me. They
gave me a chance when so many others had not. The world does not owe us
anything, I had finally learned, and the people closest to me began to marvel
at the positive changes the job imparted, in addition to it helping me repay a
debt and purchase the first vehicle I’ve ever owned. The world does not care
how smart you think you are, only what value you bring to the table.
Sometime during those eight or nine months, I became an
adult.
